Darren
My kitchens fell without a single blow being struck.
Evette arrived before the party with one trunk, three crates of preserves, and the unstoppable momentum of a mother-in-law on a mission. By the time I came down from the morning councils, my head cook had surrendered her ladle the way a general surrenders a sword, my entire kitchen staff had defected to the invader, and the woman who once outran a royal kill order was elbow-deep in my pantry, reorganizing it by a system she declined to explain to anyone.
“Darren.” She pointed a wooden spoon at me the moment I crossed the threshold. “Who ordered the eastern flour?”
“I have no idea. I’m the king.”
“Then the king can carry these to the cold room.” She never treated me like a king but a son-in-law. Family.
I carried them. There
